Travels with the Storyteller

 

Now, I know cars are not supposed to be able to talk, let alone write tales, but I belong to the Storyteller and, as you know, if he is involved, all things are possible.

Before I joined his household I belonged to a little old lady who lovingly cared for me and buffed my bright blue bodywork and carefully cleaned my cream seats until you could have eaten dinner off me!  Well, no you couldn't actually because that would have meant her starting all over again.

Unfortunately, that little old lady won the lottery and bought herself a huge great four-wheel drive vehicle (which, to this day, can be seen and heard chugging noisily around the area where she lives - most people step smartly out of the way I have to say - her eyesight is not what it was!)

ANYWAY, that was me, the bright blue Beetle.  I am slightly less bright these days, my seats are more of a grubby grey colour but hey, haven't I had some fun with The Storyteller?

I want to tell you a tale about a particular day a couple of years ago when The Storyteller was asked to visit a small school in the depths of Somerset, near to Cheddar Gorge.

We set off early in the morning - for once he remembered to fill me up with petrol - it was a lovely day and The Storyteller was whistling as we bumbled along.

To get to the small school in the depths of Somerset, near to Cheddar Gorge, we had to go through a dark, dank wood and, as we approached, the Storyteller put his foot on the pedal.  We soon picked up speed and could soon see the end of the dark, dank wood approaching fast.

BANG!  I stopped dead in my tracks.  There, in front of us, was a tiny, tiny little old woman, sobbing fit to bust in the middle of the road.

The Storyteller hopped out, looking carefully around him as he went (the wood was really, really dark and dank you know).  He bent down towards the tiny, tiny little old woman and asked her what was the matter.

I could hear a tiny, tiny voice twittering and tweeting back but couldn't hear what she said.

The Storyteller stood up, looked around him some more and strode back towards me.

"John," he said sternly (oh sorry, forgot to give you my name) "That tiny, tiny little old woman needs you.  Go!!"

He pointed towards the little figure and I approached gently (goodness knows, one slip of the clutch and the tiny, tiny little old woman would have no longer existed!).  She leaped up onto the  running board and squeezed through the key-hole (oh didn't I explain just quite how tiny, tiny, she was?) onto the seat.

She began to talk and I had to listen very carefully (since she was only going to say it once).

She directed me to a path leading straight into the dark, dank wood and I could see The Storyteller sitting by the side of the road watching us disappear.

We crept further into the wood.  The air was full of grunting, groaning noises which quite made my arial stand on end.  The tiny, tiny little old lady pointed me to the left and there, in the middle of a misty, damp clearing was a tiny, tiny little old cottage.  We slid (well it was muddy as well as misty and damp you know) gently towards the cottage and I could just hear a faint moan coming from the tiny, tiny little old cottage. 

I stopped and the tiny, tiny little old lady slipped out through the keyhole and hobbled towards the cottage.  She disappeared.  I waited.   I waited some more.  Then some more.  At last she reappeared with a bundle on her back.  As she drew closer I could see that the bundle wasn't a bundle at all, it was a tiny, tiny little old man clinging to her neck. 

She pushed him through the keyhole and he landed on the seat, lying still but moaning gently.  The tiny, tiny little old lady followed him through the keyhole and began to give me my instructions.

We set off through the woods again.  Then everything went black.

I had to stop and the tiny, tiny little old lady started to scream.  Bit by bit my bodywork began to slither and slide with creepy, crawly, slithery, slippery things.  I could feel bodies climbing and cluttering all over me.  The tiny, tiny little old lady screeched and screamed and the tiny, tiny little old man moaned gently.

What could I do?  I could go no further, the windscreen was covered in a black, writhing mass. 

Suddenly I heard a great galumphing, galoshing noise squelching through the woods.  The door flew open and a hand slammed onto my horn.

I took a deep breath and put all my energy into blowing the horn.  The noise was horrendous.  Even I jumped and it was me making the noise!  The tiny, tiny little old woman and the tiny, tiny little old man flapped and flew over into the back seat.

The black mass burst apart and before they could regroup, The Storyteller (for yes it was he) leaped into the front seat, put his foot on the pedal and we shot forward.

When we reached the road, the remains of the wriggling, rotting creatures were easily brushed off onto the bank and we set off to the nearest tiny, tiny little old hospital which catered for tiny, tiny little old people and the tiny, tiny little old man was rushed into a bed where he lay for two and a half weeks recovering nicely (I believe he had a severe case of ingrown toenails but am not too sure!)

Funnily enough, we made it to the school in plenty of time and, before he went inside, the Storyteller told me that he had hoped that I would make it in and out of the dark, dank wood on my own but that a friendly ferret, who had stopped to pass the time of day with him whilst he waited, had told him tales of torn-apart tractors, trapped trucks and mouldy motorbikes which had never, ever made it out of the wood.

He had then realised that teamwork would be the only thing to save the day!  And save the day it did!

Do you know, I still find horrible slippery and slidy bits lurking in corners of my bodywork to this day and each time I find something, the whole horrible adventure comes back to haunt me!